


When You're Small

by Anonymous



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Body Worship, Daddy Kink, Feminization, Fluffy Porn, M/M, Pregnancy Kink, but no mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-29 20:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Timothée is soft for him.





	1. Chapter 1

Timothée is soft for him.

Small, vulnerable, pretty.

So androgynous. An eternal inner beauty that is so undoubtedly beautiful. A nature within him so delicate, so lovely, so effeminate.

He’s pretty without trying, like a girl but even better, because it’s not instinctual for most others of the same biological sex. For males they’re indoctrinate to be masculine, to be leaders and to have those of the opposite sex follow.

Timmy’s completely a free soul.

Bliss and all that is natural radiates from his eyes in the comfortability between them.

He’s lax in all his settled limbs. The image of him before Armie is incredible, like a painting of a cherub but even more so beautiful. He’s cradled in the bed sheets of Armie’s like they were made to mold to his exact body. His intricately shaped body. God took careful time with each limb Armie can only assume.

Even his toes are beautiful, they’re rosy pink like his fingertips and nose, lips, ears.

His eyes radiate the sun, the moon and all the stars. The gold of the outskirts of a fireball centered in the middle of his iris like the sun, the rest is icy, cool like it’s the forgotten side of the moon. The light in his eyes remind him of beloved starlets from the past, Timmy’s eyes hold the same wistful gaze.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, cupping under his smooth chin.

Timothée’s thin legs and wispy arms are decorated by a simple but perfect babydoll Victoria Secret dress. It’s small just like his frame. Silky smooth and subtle peach pink, it adjusts on him perfectly.

He stands, wobbly kneed and blinking unsurely up at him.

Timmy’s all but 5’10 and a half, the nearly seven inches of height difference between them isn’t the main factor in their power imbalance but the difference of the way they’re built.

Armie sometimes can’t believe they’re of the same biology.

He’s unlike Timmy in almost every sense.

He’s built tall tall, he’d surpassed model height and instead is in lumber jack territory. His body runs on testosterone, it’s clear in every visible feature on him. His head shape, the large line of his jaw, his broad, strong shoulders and his long muscular legs. Even if he didn’t work out he’d be strong, enlarged muscles came naturally with his frame. He’s masculine with his deep, unquestionably certain tone of voice and in the way he expresses himself. Always holding his head high and his body relaxed, he owns that casual certainty of himself.

Timmy’s tall too, all legs and lanky arms. He’s in perfect shape for any artsy modeling company to drool over the thought of shooting with him. He’s thin like a rail but soft in the perfect places. Soft in places girls are soft at. He has soft curves of hips, a plush petite ass hidden currently under free flowing silk. Even his chest is unlike most males. He has a soft jut of belly and smooth pecs instead of abs, his hipbones are pointy and look pretty when he wears low-rise jeans. He adores the way petite female underwear rest on them too.

“Pretty?” Timmy replies, whispers back at him, smiling, batting his lashes purposely. The way he knows Armie likes (gets _hard_ for.)

He twitches in his boxers and he thanks god he and Timmy have nowhere to be any time soon. No annoying press conference or interview to attend to and blandly answer the same questions again for.

“So fucking pretty,” he growls, nosing at Timothée’s supple neck, he smells of roses and carnations there. That Dior perfume he’d bought him that he’d used to buy for Elizabeth.

Timmy gasps quietly, falling forward into his lap.

He gathers him up, aiding his legs to clasp around his waist. Timothée grinds down in wave motion, rising and sinking against the hard press of his crotch.

(it feels too good, so good, mind numbingly good, _fuck_ )

“Fuck me Daddy,” Timmy moans under his breath, his sultry voice on. “I know you want to.”

He does, more than anything, but most of all he wants to take everything he can from Timmy. He wants to control him, force him to do anything he’d want him to. He wants to crawl up inside him. Find out every bit of reason for that insatiable, unrealistic bubbliness that makes up the entirety of his character. The unknown reason to all his hope, to how he dreams so hard, his incredible amount of curiosity.

He wants to know why the sun rises just as much as he wants to know why Timmy prefers a certain cereal over the other. He wants to know every single memory and traumatic incident that ever happened to Timothée and every single thing he’d ever taken interest in.

He wants to claw out every wonderful detail out of Timmy’s brain and analyze it in the comfort of his own mind.

He finds him endless, endlessly open to everything. He fears that Timmy exposing himself to the world will have its downfall. That his heart on his sleeve will wither with tears. That maybe the creative, intelligent giving boy he is will one day have nothing left to give. That maybe he’ll end up like a Kurt Cobain or be a Monroe, just a sad case of another candle in the wind.

He penetrates Timothée slowly, gentle at first, watches the way Timmy’s breath catches in his throat and the way his eyelashes flutter, his mouth fall open with a soft shuddery gasp.

He revels in the way it hurts so good. Hurts Timmy physically and himself emotionally, knowing he can only have the sweet warmth of Timmy’s body and his love in fleeting moments. Moments of when he’s by himself, allowed to be _himself_ without Elizabeth’s presence around to stop him.

He loves the vulnerability and free spirit Timothée allows him unlike the strict role he has to play for Elizabeth.

He loves Timmy for letting him have this. This honesty, this truth to himself.

Timothée is the embodiment of everything he needs.

He fucks him like his life depends on it and maybe it does.

His heart sputters in his chest with every hiccupped breath that radiates in his ear from Timmy’s open lips.

“Fuck, right there, Daddy,” Timmy suddenly whimpers, fingers shaking as he clutches Armie’s ass, holding him deep.

He rises on his toes, pushing Timothée’s shaking thighs back and fucking in right where Timmy needs it, right at the soft delicate spot that makes his toes curl and his gasps whinier.

He growls, getting closer and closer, his gut curling and sweat starting to bead on his hairline. His sandy blond hair undoubtedly a light brown at the roots from the dampness now.

Timmy whimpers, clutching his elbow and shaking all over.

It takes him a second to realize Timothée is cumming, he feels the clench around him and the wet of his slick splash between them.

He fucks him through it, smooth strokes turning to sloppy jabs against his used, sore prostate.

He curses under his breath as he cums, thankful for them finally deciding to ditch condoms so now he can finally breed Timmy the way he instinctively would like to.

“Gonna get you pregnant,” he promises through the last pulses, his breathing evening as he begins to soften inside Timmy’s wet hole.

He rubs his tummy, imagining an embryo latching inside beneath the soft rise of flesh there.

If he could he would.

He kisses Timmy, pressing them sweetly down to his chin before he settles his head against his neck, sighing contently.

“You’re mine, forever and always, baby girl.”

It’s true, and it’s out there.

“I know,” Timmy says, and he can clearly hear the smile in his voice.

Later, when Timothée’s asleep, his cheek mushed up against their silk clad pillow and his mouth quirked in soft exhales that Armie is currently etching in his brain, wanting to remember the intimacy of that sound forever.

He watches for seconds more, knowing his love for him will one day become longing.


	2. Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut but almost smut. Enjoy!

Timmy blinks and pops his cheap bubblegum with a smile, he’s watching him with those eyes.

Those eyes that promise things Timothée’s lips don’t need to.

He could write a book about him if he truly wanted to. It’d never be something he’d publish though, for obvious reasons combined with the fact that he’s too greedy to share him with the world.

He wishes Timothée had more free time to give him. He’d spend it wisely, using each minute to connect the freckles dotted all over Timmy’s body in like a map.

He’s wearing casual clothing today because Elizabeth was present. She’d just left moments ago, taking off with her keys, her purse and a freshly juvadermed smile.

She’s staying at her cousins vacation house is the Caribbean’s for the week, they’re freshly married and invited her to their newly wed party and christening of their third home. (Which is insanely ridiculous to have a christening for yet another home of theirs, _no wonder his mother adores them_ )

Timmy makes a cooing noise, “are you sure you want to go night-night? It’s only the afternoon Hops,” he tells her with a couple added bounces. She’s rested on his hip. She’s a bit bigger than most three year olds thanks to his genes. Her legs dangle just above Timmy’s knee and she covers half his torso.

It’s a beautiful image.

Timothée’s hair is wisps longer, his strands shining a chestnut chocolate against soft cheeks. He’d gained some weight, maybe ten pounds. It barely makes a difference but it’s still there. His thighs a bit plushier, his face even a bit younger looking, cherubic otherworldly beauty.

He’s gorgeous in all the ways imaginable. Soft reddened lips with a soft heart beating in his chest to match.

He gets lost just looking at him. It takes him a moment to realize Timmy said something.

“Armie?”

(oh)

He clears his throat and fixes his dreamy eyed expression, (control yourself, hammer) “yeah?”

“I asked if I can take Hops to bed?”

She usually naps around lunch time anyways.

He nods simply, arching his back further into the singular leather chair he’s cozied up in.

Timothée sends him a smile and turns away to take Harper to bed without another question. Harper rests her tired head on his narrow shoulder and for those mere seconds they’re in sight Armie pretends Timmy is her mother instead of Liz.

It’s not that he has mommy complex and it’s _not_ that he doesn’t have one either.

It’s just…. Timmy.

He’s never met a boy or man like him, and Timmy seems to be neither. He’s too old to be a boy yet too young and bubbly to be a man.

He’s like an enigma of freedom. He can’t imagine anyone not wanting him.

Timothée has this soul that’s wise like Plato yet gentle, exploring and carefree like a child. He’s a ball of dorky laughter mixed with careful intellect. He’s articulate with his words just as quickly as he can switch off and joke about memes Armie’s a bit too old to understand. (God, he grew up too fast)

It’s sad, forlorn in a way that he sometimes (always) regrets marrying Liz. It’s not her fault in any sense. It’s all his. He chose this life and just decided it wasn’t for him after he’d been with her for a couple years too many. He’ll never ever regret his children of course, they’re the main reason he’s glad he and Liz happened.

Timmy reenters the room, the pick hoodie he was wearing now settled in his hands. The pale flesh on his shoulders exposed now, abandoned from the overpriced cotton that had been residing on them. The stark white of his sleeveless high neck shirt compliment his sweats that’re porpoise. His feet are bare though, his nails are well-manicured, too. He gets the trimmed and glossed with a clear coat by professionals, they look even prettier when they’re wrapped around his cock.

“Hops drooled all over the shoulder,” Timothée explains, smiling with a cute little wrinkle of his nose.

He smiles back at him, the heat from his fast beating heart rising like a sun burn to his cheeks.

“Come here Princess.”

He says it calmly, nudging his knees apart a bit, manspreading so it’ll be simpler for Timmy to sit down.

Timothée smiles, toothy and pretty, it’s times like these that he looks 16. (which makes him feel gross and painfully hard all at once, fuck)

Timmy’s steps are slow, small, teasing, he _knows_ what he’s doing. (of course he does, _fucking_ genius)

He pats his knee, gaining control of the situation again (hopefully). Timmy is the opposite of suave as he sits down. He’s all clumsy limbs and bones of a frailly built boy.

He feels light, all five foot ten inches of him stretched thin even though he weighed even less for beautiful boy. His ass is softer now, and not even close to as small as when they filmed for CMBYN. He’s been eating well and it carries lovely on him. Timmy looks healthy and warm and that’s all that matters.

“Daddy,” Timmy whispers, his voice small and his eyes big, blown and blissed out even though he’s barely touched him.

“Yes, sweetie?” He returns with the sacred hush of voice. They’re quiet and they don’t even need to be, but it feels right.

“I love this……..” a breath, a sigh, “what we have, it’s.. just.. it’s everything to me.”

He rocks him in his lap softly, clasping around his waist tighter now than and not as casual as he’d previously restrained himself. Even alone their situation somehow felt delicate.

He almost wants to grimace for Timmy’s sake, Timmy’s so young. No matter how educated he’s still decently inexperienced. He worries that his blatantly forced relationship with Liz may prolong itself longer than Timmy is willing to wait. What if he gets tired of being in the dark? What if he realizes how naïve he’d been to fuck Armie, Armie being a married older man with children and a wife practically glued to his hip.

“I love this too,” he says instead, rubbing Timothée’s narrow hip.

He loves everything about him. Even the small part of him that isn’t so pretty. The part of Timmy that is jealous, insecure and nervous. The Timmy that sends him worried texts that say ‘ **you’re not over me, are you**?’ every time Armie posts a loving caption about Elizabeth. The Timmy that skips nights of sleep because he worries he’s not doing enough, that he’s going to make a mistake and fuck up everything somehow.

He loves Timothée for his entirety and he couldn’t ask for anything more, if anything he feels extremely less deserving than him. He has nothing to offer him. His chance at an A-lister film career seemingly passed and he has baggage of a current marriage and children.

The time passes slow, arms that blend together sliding up and down contrasting sides, slim and strong, smooth and hairy, yin and yang.

Timmy pulls back after a moment, ass planted in his lap and arms wrapped around his strong tan neck. In this moment he looks like Audrey Hepburn, all black outfit matched with dark eyes in the faint light glowing from above them.

Armie brushes back a thick chestnut curl away from Timmy’s eye, revealing happy crinkle lines on the outskirts.

“You are a doll,” he tells him, truth soaked in mesmerization. Timmy lets out a giggle that sounds all too airy, so Monroe-ish, like a starlet kissing up to a director but so much better, so much more real.

“You are everything,” he says, too, and it’s true.

“Everything?” Timothée laughs. He probably thinks he’s corny and ridiculous and Armie doesn’t care because he knows Timmy also understands.

“I wish I could create life with you. Our child would be perfection,” Armie admits in a somber tone, his gaze taking downward.

Timmy shifts in his lap, coming impossibly closer. He embraces Armie sweetly and props his chin on his head, the angle helps Armie wrap his arms tighter on his lithe waist.

“I don’t mind playing mommy and daddy,” Timmy whispers, pushing against him, (down against him) right on his dick that’s been half hard since Timothée sat in his lap.

(fuck)

He sucks in a much needed breath as Timmy just derived all of it from his lungs.

“Okay,” he croaks, throat suddenly dry.

(control yourself Hammer)

His heart is pounding in his dick and he really shouldn’t feel this way. He probably shouldn’t get more turned on by pretending he knocked up Timmy than his actual wife but fuck he truly does.

It’s so twisted and he knows his mom would be frowning heavily and paying a priest if she knew of his fantasies, of the depraved things he wishes he could do. He wishes he could have a litter of children with Timmy. He’d get him pregnant every year if it was possible, year after year until Timmy’s so accustomed to a round belly that he’d just be a stay at home mom.

He lifts him that second, unexpected to both Timmy and himself. Something inside him snapped, something that was once a branch in its strength to hold itself together now a thin twig, a fraying thread, it was bound to burst at some point.

Timmy’s yelp rings in his ear and his bony limbs clamber to hold on for safety.

Armie pushes them down onto the carpeted floor, his breath panting in Timmy’s ear and his fingertips buzzing with want.

He gently fists Timmy’s long hair in his grasp, feeling him arch back into it submissively. (his body’s way of saying “come here, I’m yours,”)

Timmy mewls wantonly, spreading his legs open like a wife, his lips finding their way to Armie’s lips dirtily licking like a girlfriend.

“Breed me, daddy, impregnate me,” he guides Armie’s other hand to his concave stomach, slim and small like the rest of him. “Put your babies in me.”

Armie’s breathing turns jagged and skyrockets in needed inhales.

“Let me feel it, your child kicking from inside my belly, making my chest swollen with milk and my hips wider,” Timmy says, every sentence sounding like a breathy moan and fuck if Armie’s cock doesn’t feel achy.

Armie presses two fingers to Timothee’s mouth to quiet him so he doesn’t completely ravish him immediately, lets him suck them both into his mouth with a contented groan. Plush red lips on an angel face look deliriously and ridiculously hot. There’s something so sickeningly hot about sex and innocence mixing.

He presses his hand firmly down on Timmy’s stomach again, feeling his belly rise softly with every fast inhale.

“You’re perfect,” he promises, knowing all too well Timmy would never believe it.

Timothée, (as expected) laughs, a wheezing bubbling laugh. His noise of disbelief, it’s beautiful as it meets his eyes in wonderment.

He kisses him again and Timmy’s eyes go sad.

“What’s wrong?” Armie asks, his own stare undoubtedly going to Timmy’s small frown.

“I’m not perfect.. I can’t give you everything you want.”

He sighs, brushes Timmy’s hair back, “that’s fine, because you are more than I ever dreamed of.”

Timmy sighs, an unsure smile quirking on his face.

“Really?” he asks.

He flips them over, letting Timmy rest his hands on his shoulders.

“Everything,” he punctuates every syllable with a press of lips to Timmy’s collarbone.


End file.
